Someone Else
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: Richard thinks that Isobel has someone else, and Isobel thinks that Richard does; when in fact all they really want is each other. Mid-series 3, AU, with some spoilers and lots of wishful-thinking. Featuring Isobel, Dr. Clarkson, Mrs Hughes, Mrs Patmore, Anthony Strallan and the rest of them.
1. Chapter 1

**Set in the hypothetical realms of Season 3, with some spoilers and some wishful thinking. Also, tending towards the AU where Mrs Hughes and Mrs Crawley are good friends.**

"It's very kind of you to take me out to tea, Sir Anthony," Isobel told him sincerely, smiling at him over her teacup, "I must admit, it's not something that happens very often any more, especially now that Matthew's married. Before the war, we very often used to come down to the village for our tea on a Saturday afternoon. But I understand, of course, now he has Mary to take care of."

Anthony Strallan smiled back at her.

"I don't pretend to hide the fact that I like your son very much," he replied, "He's always been a good sort of chap. A credit to you, if I may say."

"You certainly may," she told him, "I do miss him now that he's moved out of the house, but I'm luckier than most mothers in my position, he lives just down the street. And I still come here by myself sometimes," she added, nodding at the tea room they were sitting in, "It makes a pleasant change from eating at home. However," she pointed out a little ruefully, he was bound to have noticed so she might as well mention it, "Coming here with a man close to my own age, well, does make us look rather like-..." she struggled to know how to finish.

"A courting couple?" he ventured.

"Well, quite."

She caught his eye and they both, much to her relief, laughed.

"This isn't where all of the courting couples in Downton come for their afternoon tea together, is it?" he asked hesitantly.

"Not quite all of them, but most of them, I'm afraid," she told him, laughing again, "I have to admit, I was rather puzzled when you suggested that we meet here. But they do nice cakes, so I didn't say anything."

He laughed again.

"Anyway, I think we're quite safe," she assured him, "I think just about everyone in the village knows that you're engaged to Edith. And it would be foolish beyond belief to flaunt your other woman in the tearoom of the village where she lives."

"Quite," he agreed.

"And I take it there was a reason you asked me here?" she asked him, "I imagined you wanted to talk to me about Edith. Was I wrong?"

"No, Mrs Crawley, you were quite right. The fact is, I need your help."

"With what?"

"My wedding present to Edith."

"You're wondering what you're going to get her? I'm not sure I'm the best one to help you there, you'd be better off asking one of her sisters or her mother."

"I know exactly what I'm going to get her," he assured her.

"Oh, good," she replied, secretly relieved on Edith's behalf that her fiancé knew her well enough to know what she'd like as a wedding present, "What?"

"When we went for a drive to York, she saw a dress in a shop window that she liked the look of, in fact she adored it, but she couldn't afford it then- heavens, I didn't have the money with me to buy it. I think she'd look marvellous in it. And I'd especially like her to have it when we go away for our honeymoon."

"Oh, Sir Anthony, you _are_ good. That's a lovely thought," Isobel told him, "She'll be thrilled. But why do you need my help?"

"For her to be able to take it with her, she will have to have it ready on our wedding day, and I want it to be a surprise too. That means there isn't any time for her to go for a fitting at the shop without spoiling the surprise."

"Ah, I see."

"What I want you to do, Mrs Crawley, is to do me the favour of getting ahold of Edith's dress measurements."

Isobel took a contemplative sip of her tea.

"I didn't want to ask Lady Grantham to do it," he explained, "She has so much on her plate as it is, organising our wedding for us. And as for Edith's grandmother, Lady Violet that is- I'm afraid I don't know Lady Grantham's mother very well- well-..." he trailed off warily.

"You're frightened of her?" Isobel asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You're not?" he replied, equally surprised.

Isobel hooted with laughter.

"Violet and I have learned to live with each other, after all these years," she explained, "Even if that does, on occasions, entail mutual avoidance."

He chuckled again, as their cakes arrived.

"I see I have made the acquaintance of the right member of the family," he remarked.

"It's very nice of you to say so, Sir Anthony, but I would warn you not to speak to soon," she smiled at him.

…**...**

Richard was making his way back to the hospital in something of a foul mood. In fact he was in an awful mood. All he seemed to have done today was to career around the village on a series of fool's errands; easily avoidable accidents or very minor injuries that didn't really need a doctor at all; one child had managed to get a button stuck up their nose, for heaven's sake! He let out a heavy sigh as he reflected that at least during the war he had never felt uselessly employed like this. What he wanted now was to return to the hospital, deposit his bag and see if Mrs Crawley could be at all persuaded to sit down and have a cup of tea with him before they both went there separate ways home for the evening. But, he remembered, it was Mrs Crawley's afternoon off, and when he made his way home again he would have to do so very briefly; he had been invited for dinner at the big house that night. He knew he had only been invited because Lady Edith's fiancé was visiting and a great effort was being made to impress him, but the food there was good so he had accepted, and it was too late to refuse now.

Anyway, he thought to himself, as he walked wearily on, the small consolation was that when he was there he might be able to see Mrs Crawley and have a quick chat with her then. In fact, without her, he would find those dinners insufferable. Just at the moment when he thought he couldn't stand another moment of some ghastly bore talking about something he had no interest in, she always turned up at his side and made a joke about something, and his spirits were completely restored. Yes, he would see her that evening.

Heartened a little, he turned the corner onto the main street of the village, walking past the first shops with a little more spring in his step. His whole outlook was brightened by the thought of Isobel. In fact- was it?- yes, that was her up ahead, leaving one of the shops near the middle of the street, he could make her out, although there were quite a few people on the street, making their way home. Coming closer to her, he saw she was leaving the Marigold Tearooms, and he smiled to himself; he knew she had something of a penchant for the cakes they did there.

He was just about to go up to her and say hello, when he saw, to his surprise, that she was not alone, someone else had followed her out of the tearooms. They appeared to be saying goodbye to each other, but they looked very friendly together. He squinted a little, wanting to stay out of sight, trying to see who she was with. Yes, it was, it was Anthony Strallan, who was going to marry Lady Edith. Surely... the man was engaged, he couldn't have an interest in Mrs Crawley, could he? And even if he did, he surely wouldn't be so foolish as act on it. Not that it was foolish for a man to have an interest in Isobel Crawley. But, he thought ruefully, they were leaving the Marigold Tearooms, and it was common knowledge that the Marigold Tearooms were where all of the courting couples in Downton went.

He bent down, pretending to tie his shoe lace, looking up at them furtively. They were parting but... But Sir Anthony was kissing Isobel's hand. He felt his stomach sink uncontrollably.

Staying crouched down for a moment more, as he saw them part Richard straightened up, smoothing out the creases in his trousers with great concentration so that he did not have to meet Sir Anthony's eye as he passed. He doubted that he would have been recognised anyway, but he still felt uncomfortable.

He waited for a few moments to allow Isobel to get ahead of him as they were walking in the same direction- her back to Crawley House and him to the hospital. After what he had just witnessed, he had no wish to have to make conversation with her. His mind was reeling. Caught between the irritated instinct to walk quickly and the wish not to catch her up he sat down on one of the benches under the tree by the village green for a second.

Of course, he thought, she had a perfect right to go to tearooms with whomever she liked. The fact that the man in question was her young cousin's fiancé really was none of his business. There was no reason on earth that it should irritated him. But it had, he realised, very much so. He heaved a heavy sigh. It had irritated him so much that he hadn't even realised that a woman had sat down beside him on the bench; a woman who was now watching him wearily, probably because he had just sighed so audibly and, he imagined, looked like thunder. He half-smiled at her apologetically.

"You alright, love?" she asked, in a voice that for some reason sounded vaguely familiar, but which he couldn't quite place.

"Yes, thank you," he told her, hoping he didn't sound to sharp or overly standoffish.

"You don't look it," she told him.

He laughed politely, but did not feel particularly amused.

"I've had rather a trying day," he told her.

"Doctor, are you?" she asked.

"How did you know?"

"Because you're carrying a doctor's bag."

He did not, somehow, quite care for her tone. It was a little drawling and dismissive, without, he was sure, meaning to be.

"My sister's told me about you," she continued, "Just in passing of course, when she's been to see you at the hospital. She mentioned that the doctor was handsome."

"Who is your sister?" he asked, thinking that it might tell him why she looked vaguely familiar. Also, her remarked piqued his curiosity, though he knew the chances of Isobel having a sister and him not having heard about her before now were catastrophically slim. The woman's appearance was rather striking, though she was not pretty in the conventional sense, she was nothing approaching beautiful, not like Isobel. She was rather large, dressed in dark clothes that matched her hair.

"Beryl Patmore," she replied, "I'm here to visit her. I haven't seen her in years. I'm Agatha."

He shook hands with her. It did make sense, she certainly did have the look of Mrs Patmore about her, and her voice was practically identical.

"I'm staying at the Grantham Arms," she told him. If he wasn't very much mistaken, she was eyeing him over somewhat. It unnerved him, there was something sharp about her that he had never noticed in her sister on the occasions he had seen her, "I say, I don't suppose, you'd fancy having a spot of supper there with me this evening. Or a few drinks?"

My goodness me, she's forward, he though. Very few women had ever asked him to spend the evening with them, especially after such a brief acquaintance, it was usually the other way around. He was sure Isobel would never do it. And, as seen as he couldn't work up the nerve to ask her, she was off having tea in cosy little teashops with Anthony Strallan.

"I'm afraid I can't," he replied politely, "As it happens I'm engaged to have dinner at the big house, where your sister works this evening."

"Well, another evening, then," she pressed, "I'm here for a fortnight at least. I needed a good break from that lot at home and I thought it would do me good to come and see Beryl."

She's persistent too, he thought.

"Your children?" he asked.

"Four of them," she replied, looking harassed at the very mention, "The youngest's ten this June. And with my husband dead two years since."

"Oh, I'm sorry," he told her, a little more sincerely than he'd previously been.

"So you'll have dinner one evening, then?" she asked.

The rapid change of subject rather foxed him, and he was rather taken aback.

"I will have to see," he replied courteously, "In my job arranging things too far in advance can be a bit of a risk. Especially now that I'm back in charge of the hospital alone."

That wasn't strictly true, he thought, no doubt Isobel would be more than willing to look after the hospital for an evening if he wanted to go out. But, the thing was, he didn't want her to be willing to.

"I'm sorry, I must go or I'll be late," he told her, standing up.

"What's your name?" she asked him as he made to leave.

"Richard," he told her, nodding a little curtly, "Doctor Richard Clarkson."

…**...**

Though he had been annoyed at her earlier in the day, he found that the moment Isobel came up behind him that night in the drawing room he felt a little better. Things were dreadfully dull as usual, and the sight, the feeling, of her giving one of her benignly sly little smiles made him feel somehow warmer. Looking back over his shoulder at her, she glowed in her red dress in the generously lit drawing room, her yellow-brown hair now starting to look more silver, but gracefully so.

"Enjoying yourself?" she asked.

"Thoroughly," he replied dryly. It was a joke they had, they always began their conversations in this drawing room like this.

She smiled into her glass as she settled to stand beside him.

"Are you drinking brandy?" he asked her, a little surprised. She usually had a coffee and left it at that.

"Just for this evening," she answered, looking a little bit self-conscious, "I'm working up my nerve to do a particular favour for a new friend of mine."

This caught his attention; that could only be Sir Anthony.

"Oh yes?" he remarked, trying to sound as carefree and casual as possible, "What might that be?"

"Couldn't possibly say," she told him, taking another swig, and giving him a conspiratorial glance, she loved fooling about like this, especially when she'd had something to drink, "Only that it involves sneaking into someone's room with a tape measure."

"It wouldn't be Sir Anthony's room by any chance, would it?" he asked in a low voice, trying not to sound too sarcastic.

"Certainly not!" she replied a little too loudly, due to the brandy, no doubt.

He gave her a rather wry look. It was difficult to joke with a lump in your throat.

"I think the lady protests too much," he told her, keeping his voice low.

She drained the rest of her brandy, giving her glass to Thomas as he passed.

"Whatever you say, Richard," she replied, smiling at him, "But you have to admit, he's not a bad man, Sir Anthony, is he? I mean, I think, Edith could do worse."

"I can't say I really know him," he replied coldly.

"Well, I will tell you, he's not at all bad type for a young girl to be marrying. And rather a romantic mind too," he felt as if he'd been slapped in the face, but she did not seem to notice, she only picked up her shawl casually and said, "Now, I must get a move on if I'm not going to be caught out. Shall I see you at the hospital tomorrow?"

"Yes," he replied hoarsely.

She left him standing there, his heart and mind reeling again.

On his way home, soon after as Isobel did not re-emerge, he called downstairs and asked Mrs Patmore if she wouldn't mind telling her sister that he'd like to meet her one evening at the Grantham Arms.

**Please review if you have the time. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for your reviews on the first chapter, I am glad you like it.**

It was not often that Isobel had occasion to go into the Grantham Arms. No one ever took her out there, she was more than satisfied with the quality of Mrs Bird's food, she was not much of a drinker, and if she did take to drinking she preferred something stronger than ale, and it was very much better for all concerned if she only partook of such drinks in the privacy of her own or her family's home. But that was where she found herself bound that evening. Looking for Matthew, she had called at his and Mary's house to find that they were both out; Mary was up at the big house, and Matthew had gone to the Grantham Arms with an old friend from school who was passing through the village. She could have left a message, but she liked to see her son, she knew the boy- well, man now, she supposed- who was visiting and seemed to remember liking him on the times the had met, and she was sure they wouldn't mind her intruding for a few moments.

She did not enter the public house hesitantly; by this time in her life she was not a timid woman and the Grantham Arms, from what she knew of it, was not comparatively rowdy. Moreover, once she was inside the front door, she found that it was warmly lit and humming with a pleasant level of chatter. Almost straight away she spotted Matthew, seated at the bar with a man who must have been his friend James, smiled and made her way over to them, shuffling with only a little difficulty between tables.

"Mother," he greeted her cheerfully, kissing her on the cheek, "Do you remember James Marshall from school?"

"Hello, Mr. Marshall," she said, smiling at him and shaking his hand, "Yes, I just about remember you. You're the boy who kept a parrot in your dormitory and thought you could stop the matron finding out, aren't you?"

"That's always what people remember," he replied, grinning broadly.

As he smiled, the vivid scar of what must have been a vicious cut along the line of him bottom lip caught the light, and made her start a little in surprise at its sudden ferociousness. She tried to hide her startled reaction so as not to embarrass him, but she didn't quite manage. Fortunately, he smiled softly and a little sadly.

"The War," he explained to her, he hardly needed to say any more but, mercifully briefly, he added; "Shrapnel."

"Ah," she replied, mentally wincing, "I am sorry. It doesn't stop you looking handsome, though," she added, "If it's any consolation."

He laughed heartily.

"It certainly is," he replied , "Especially coming from you, Mrs. Crawley."

"I won't read too much into that," she told him conspiratorially, grinning a little, remembering that this boy had always been a flatterer.

"Let me get you a drink, Mother," Matthew told her, "You might as well have a seat as well."

"No, it's alright, I won't stop for long," she assured him, "I just wanted to see if you and Mary are going up for dinner on Saturday? I'm not sure if I really feel like it, but I'll go if you're going."

"We thought we probably would," he replied, "But I do agree, they seem to be laying on a lot of dinners at the moment."

"I think that's in honour of Lord Strallan," she hypothesised, "A very nice man, but I hope they're paying Mrs Patmore for all of the extra work. They've had everyone who's anyone in the village up at the house as often as they've had us; that man from the station, the one who is always in the library who used to be a Dean at Oxford or Cambridge, I forget which; and Dr. Clarkson, he's been there. I wonder if he's going on Saturday," she mused aloud, forgetting they could hear her.

"You can ask him yourself," Matthew informed her, "He's just over there."

"Where?" she asked, craning her neck in the direction he had pointed in, "I didn't know he drank here."

"Over in the corner," he replied, "And he's not drinking, he's eating."

"Alone?" she asked, still unable to see him.

"No, Mother," for a second she wondered why his voice had somehow gone flat and quiet, but before she could query him, his next words filled in all of the gaps, "With a woman."

At that moment she spotted him, in the corner as Matthew had said, sitting at a small table with a large, dark-haired woman. And, incredibly, unaccountably, her first thought was "She doesn't even look like me". Then, her eyes flitted from the back of the woman's head, and met squarely with Richard's, right at the other side of the room, taking her aback a little. They were sat and a little surprised, and confused, before he lowered them towards the table. She was just about to say something to Matthew- what she had not yet decided- when she saw the woman lean forward across the table and take hold of Richard's hand; and utter dismay rendered her incapable of speech.

"Mother? Mother, are you alright?"

Matthew was talking to her, and somehow, she did not know when, her mouth had fallen open slightly. Dumbly, she turned back to Matthew, half-expecting him to explain to her why she was not really seeing what she thought she was. Of course, he did no such thing. Really, she thought, he almost looked rather concerned.

"Mother, would you like to sit down?"

She was torn between her inability to move and her wish to get as far away from this spot and this moment as possible.

"Mrs Crawley, what's the matter?" James asked her, getting out of his chair and helping her into it instead, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she half-croaked, "Nothing, I'm perfectly alright. Except," she added after a moment, "Except, I think I might like that drink after all."

…**...**

"Enjoying yourself?" she asked, appearing behind his shoulder in the drawing room that Saturday.

He felt his insides warm a little.

"Thoroughly," he replied, smiling, as she settled to stand beside him. He could not hide the fact from himself that part of him was glad that she was still speaking to him after seeing him in the Grantham Arms mid-week. But then, he thought, from her point of view there was probably no reason in the world for her to be cross with him.

"Not as much as other nights this week, though?" she asked testily.

He smiled genially, but unless he was very much mistaken, he hinted a touch of coldness in her voice. Really, it was hardly fair, he thought, when she was going out to teashops with and running secret errands for Anthony Strallan, of all people.

"She's Mrs Patmore's sister," he explained, guessing what she meant by that remark, "We met just before last week's dinner. We've been out for a couple of drinks and a meal this week, and that's all," he felt the need to add, and stress.

"I'm surprised you didn't bring her here with you tonight."

He cast her a wary look, there was more than a little, undisguised, coldness in that voice now. Somehow, and he saw his instinct had obviously been right, it had seemed wrong to bring Agatha somewhere that, in his mind, was so specifically Isobel. But he did not say this, instead he offered the reason he had given Agatha herself when she had asked if he would take her with him.

"I didn't think it would be quite right. After all, it would be so strange; Agatha's sister works here. And you know that sort of thing doesn't always go down well here," he tried to resist the temptation to nod in Lady Violet's direction.

However, even if he had done, it didn't seem that Isobel would have noticed.

"On first name terms, are we?" she asked, in a very forced casual tone, "Does she call you Richard?"

If she was trying, for some reason, to hurt him or make him feel guilty, she was certainly succeeding admirably to do both. He was about to, absurdly, apologise to her- what for, exactly, he did not know- when they were interrupted. And the nature of the interruption drove all thought of apology from his mind. It was Lord Strallan.

"Forgive me, Mrs Crawley," he began, "But might I have a word with you? Regarding the particular favour I asked of you last week?"

"Oh, yes, of course," she replied. He could not quite forgive her for looking pleased to get away.

"Excuse us, Dr. Clarkson," Sir Anthony nodded to him, before he followed Isobel away.

"Of course," Richard replied, though no one was there to hear him, and he was left standing alone.

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	3. Chapter 3

Even though she most certainly was not frightened of her, it was rare that Isobel paid a call to Cousin Violet, however brief, and left without feeling a profound sense of relief. Perhaps it was the low ceilings of the Dower House, or the way the light seemed to refuse to enter the windows at most times of the year that made it feeling claustrophobic and oddly like a prison. Anyway, as Isobel walked out into the sunshine, she felt the usual wave of contentedness and a relaxation sweep over her with the increase of air.

It was Wednesday, market day, and the village was still busy, although it was getting on for evening and it had rained a little while she had been inside at Violet's. There was still a little while before she would be expected at home for supper, and there was very little she urgently had to attend to. She wondered if she should call in at the hospital; sometimes the hustle and bustle of market day gave rise to over-excitement and there were a few more injuries to be attended to, and her help might be needed. She began making her way in the direction of the hospital at a gentle pace, still cheerful from her recent "escape".

She soon, however, received unequivocal evidence that the hospital was not busy that evening. A short distance away from the main gate, she clearly made out Richard's figure, dressed in his coat and carrying his medical bag, in the obvious stance of someone going home for the evening. It was a long time since they'd really talked, it struck her, seeing him there oblivious to her gaze, apart from the few words they'd exchanged at the dinner they'd attended the Saturday before last, they'd only had a few sparing conversations at the hospital, and always in the presence of one of the nurses or a patient. Thinking about it like that, it occurred to her very vaguely that he might be avoiding her, but if that was the case she couldn't quite think what she had done. But now, she thought, now she did have the chance to talk to him; they could walk home together.

Just as she was about to call to him, increase her pace and catch him up, she saw that he was not alone; someone had followed him through the hospital gates. She stopped herself moving forwards just in time, and fell back instead to watch. Yes, it was, it was the same woman, Agatha. Isobel had never seen her this close up before. She was passably pretty, although her best years were certainly behind her. Her features were sharper than her sister's, and had more of an unkind look about them. Her hair was too black to be naturally so, Isobel thought, feeling immediately conscious of the silver that was beginning to show in her own. Her lips were smeared red, and she was distinctly wearing a lot of powder. She knew that it was the fashion nowadays, but she thought perhaps she had taken it a bit far, and she wondered vaguely that Richard found that sort of thing attractive.

Her stomach sank, a lump seemed to form in her throat, all of the relief and contentedness she had felt since leaving the Dower House sapped from her veins as, still standing just where she was, she saw Agatha take Richard's arm, as they turned away from her and headed proceeded down the street- in the direction of Richard's house. She stood there watching their receding backs, the only vaguely positive feeling she could muster being a slight gladness that she was alone, and no one could witness how utterly this sight cast her down.

Except, she was not alone.

"Mrs Crawley? Are you quite alright?" she heard a quiet voice beside her.

Turning, much to her surprise, it was Mrs Hughes she saw standing beside her, following the direction that her eyes had been fixed in, able to see what she had been watching, and now, obviously, completely aware of the whole situation without even having to ask a question. Isobel flushed a little; she had been caught out.

Still, this knowledge didn't stop her from answering; "Quite alright, Mrs Hughes."

But she could tell by the look on the housekeeper's face that her voice had betrayed her.

"I don't suppose, Mrs Crawley," she ventured in a rather tentative voice, "That you'd like to have a cup of tea up at the big house before supper this evening? The family are dining out at the Tompkinsons' house over near Ripon tonight, so we've no work. Just, I wondered if you," Mrs Hughes looked very much as if she was trying to find as inoffensive a phrase as possible, "Might like the company."

Isobel smiled at the woman's kindness.

"Yes, Mrs Hughes, I think I'd like that."

…**...**

Mrs Patmore joined them for tea in Mrs Hughes' sitting room. At first Isobel was a little bit awkward with her there, harbouring, as she was, ever increasingly resentful feelings towards her sister, that she wasn't entirely sure if she could justify yet. But that problem was soon put to rest. The conversation, it seemed, could not help but turn itself towards the subject of Agatha.

Mrs Hughes, with the swiftest of cautious glances in Isobel's direction, mentioned that she'd certainly seen Agatha in the village earlier, with Dr. Clarkson. Mrs Patmore made a sound of consternation.

"So that's who she's got her claws into," she remarked in a rather disgruntled voice, taking a hearty swig of tea, "I wondered how long it would be. My sister," she turned to Isobel, "Is nothing but trouble."

"I wouldn't quite go that far, Beryl," Mrs Hughes reproached her, "She must be quite lonely, remember?"

"With four children to keep her company?" Mrs Patmore queried, "You don't know what she's like, Elsie, growing up with her, she was always chasing one boy or another. She couldn't rest if she wasn't."

"And did she ever catch any?" Isobel asked, half-joking, half-terrified of what the answer might be.

Mrs Patmore looked at her, weighing her up a little.

"One," she replied finally, "And he ended up having to marry her."

Isobel was not quite sure what to make of that; whether she should be relieved at the low success rate or worried by the depth of the resulting entanglement. The worry must have showed in her face. Mrs Hughes turned towards her wearing an expression of concern, which Isobel thought was in part sympathy for her plight and part apprehension that she was cross the mark with her next question.

"When I saw you in the village," she began tentatively, "And you saw them...together. You looked..." she seemed unable to phrase what she wanted to say carefully enough, and simply asked, "Did I guess correctly?"

Isobel let out a heavy sigh.

"Yes, Mrs Hughes, I'm afraid you probably did."

"What?" Mrs Patmore looked from one to the other, puzzled.

Sighing again, Isobel turned to her.

"I'm afraid to say that I'm rather uncomfortable about you sister and Dr. Clarkson," she confessed.

"So am I," Mrs Patmore assured her heartily, "But are you uncomfortable for her sake or his?"

Isobel was silent, examining her clasped hands closely.

"If it makes you feel any better, I am most certainly uncomfortable for his," the cook added, and Mrs Hughes nodded her agreement.

Then, Isobel looked her straight in the face.

"I'm uncomfortable first and foremost for my own sake, Mrs Patmore, unfortunately," there was a heavy silence, then, "I know it's selfish of me."

Even in the quiet, awaiting their stinted, disguised disapproval, Isobel felt inwardly relieved that she'd finally voiced the sentiments she'd been so desperately been keeping to herself over the past few days.

"Elsie, go and ask that butler of yours to find us something stronger to drink," Mrs Patmore told her, then, turning to Isobel, "I'll bet it's not really as selfish as you think it is."

…**...**

The something stronger to drink arrived in the form of brandy.

"You know, Beryl, this sister of yours," they had long since dispensed with the formality of titles, and Isobel addressed the cook as an old friend as she offered her another drink, "I'm sorry to say that I don't think I like her, I don't think I like her at all."

"I don't blame you," the cook told her, clapping her on the back with considerable strength, "I mean, it completely understandable, if another woman's got her hands on your man, you're not going to be best of friends with her!"

Elsie, who didn't seem to be quite as affected by the drink as the other two, had been smiling rather wryly at them both, nodded heartily at this statement.

"He's not my man," Isobel told her drink, sadly.

"But he should be," Mrs Patmore pressed, emphasising her vehemence by setting it down on the table rather firmly, "By God, he should be! He's a good man, he's a wonderful, handsome man, and you're a handsome, respectable woman, Isobel. And, I have to say, a lot more fun that I thought you'd be. Have another drink!" she declared, raising the bottle enthusiastically.

"I think you'd better not, actually, Beryl," Elsie told her, standing up quickly and gently prising the bottle from her grasp and setting it down at the far end of the table.

Beryl appeared relatively unperturbed, and instead helped herself to Isobel's drink. Isobel didn't mind, she was beginning to feel that she'd probably had enough to drink anyway.

"I can't help feeling she's right, though," Elsie told Isobel seriously, "I think you'd be better for him than Agatha would, too."

"It's not much good if he doesn't want me, though," Isobel countered glumly.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that either," she replied, a small smile on her face.

"What do you mean by that?" Isobel asked, as sharply as she could in this state.

"What she means," Beryl chipped in loudly, "Is that you shouldn't let my no-good sister interfere, if it's you two that should be together."

"But," Isobel's brain seemed to be working slowly, and she had to think a lot before being able to voice what she really meant, "It would be me who was interfering, wouldn't it, with the pair of them? I mean, they're already together, aren't they?"

Her voice rippled a little as she said it, as if she was about to cry, but she didn't. Mrs Hughes looked at her very carefully.

"Perhaps it would be, strictly speaking," she conceded, "But I think we both know it would be entirely different. I think Beryl might be right, you know," Elsie confided quietly, giving the really quite drunken cook rather a fond look, "If Richard Clarkson's supposed to be with anyone I know, then it's you, Isobel."

…**...**

Isobel, rather cheered by the brandy, was making her way up the stairs to go home. In fact, it seemed that she had been climbing the stairs for a very long time indeed, but she supposed that was because she was tired, it was very late by now. She couldn't stop thinking about what Elsie had said, about her belonging with Richard; she couldn't get it out of her head. Who was this new woman turning up out of the blue to try to come between the two of them? They had known each other for years, for heaven's sake, nigh on ten years! Richard was her oldest and best friend in Downton, and she had barely spoken to him since he'd met that silly little harlot!

By turn, she became rather angry, stamping her feet into the stairs as she went. It was unfair, just because she wasn't as forward as this woman didn't mean that she valued him any less. Her reticence just meant that Richard didn't realise how much she valued him. In fact, before now she didn't think she'd even realised how much he meant to her. Oh, it wasn't fair, none of this was fair!

"Mrs Crawley? What in heaven's name are you doing up here?"

The door to the servants' stairs had opened on the next landing up, and Sir Anthony's bewildered face peered over the banister at her.

"Sir Anthony!" she exclaimed, pleased to see a friendly face, "I'm just going home."

"If you want to go home this way you'll have to jump off the roof," he told her.

"What?" she asked, not understanding.

"You seem to have missed the door for the main hall," he told her kindly.

"Oh goodness!" Isobel exclaimed, giggling a little at her mistake, "Where am I, then?"

"You're very nearly in the bachelors' corridor," he told her.

She laughed again, pressing her hand over her mouth in barely concerned embarrassment.

"Have you been drinking, Mrs Crawley?" he asked her, eyeing her warily.

"Only the very smallest drop," she assured him, "I would never have lost control of myself, Sir Anthony, I promise you, Mrs Hughes took the bottle away from me."

"I think I had better see you home safely," he decided, "Wait here, I'll get my coat. Don't go anywhere!" he added hastily, before hurrying away back to his room.

Isobel sank down onto the step to wait for him.

…**...**

Richard had most emphatically insisted on walking Agatha back to the Grantham Arms. He didn't know whether he did so more out of chivalry or the fear that she would not ever be persuaded to leave at all before breakfast time if he didn't, and he wasn't ready for that, not with Agatha. He had no real reason to suppose that would be the case at all, he hadn't even kissed her properly yet, but nevertheless it was not a risk he was willing to take. Like a gentleman, though, he helped her into her coat and held the door open for her. Even though there were no cars at this time of night he walked on the outside of the pavement too.

"It's not a bad pub, the Grantham Arms," he reflected aloud as they walked along, drawing ever closer to it.

Goodness only knew, he had been there more in the past few weeks than he had ever been in all his time at Downton.

"No," she agreed, though something in her tone sounded reluctant, " A bit lonely, though, when you're there by yourself."

"The same could be said of anywhere," he pointed out.

There was a silence.

"Not that I am," he added rather hurriedly, "Because I live alone, I mean."

"It's a big house for one," she replied, looking at him dolefully.

"I like the space," he countered, "I like having my own study, it's useful."

She linked her arm through his, as they continued to walk along. He was not sure if he was glad that it was dark most of the way along the street. Overall, he felt less comfortable, but it meant that she could not see his face.

When they reached the main street, it became lighter anyway because of the streetlights. As the came to the corner where Crawley House stood, they stopped automatically, seeing figures ahead, going into the front gate.

"Who's that?" Agatha asked, her hand tightening on his arm a little in surprise.

He squinted through the darkness. He recognised Isobel's hat.

"It's Mrs Crawley," he told her, a little relieved that they were not witnessing Isobel's house being burgled.

"Yes, but who's she got with her?" Agatha whispered, in a low, fascinated voice.

"I can't see," he replied.

"It's a man," she told him, standing on her tiptoes to see over the wall.

"It's probably her son seeing her home."

"No, that's not her son," she told him, "Even if he has got his arm around her. He must be as old as she is."

He didn't particularly care for the way she used the word "old" in relation to his Isobel, but his consternation at that was comparatively minor. He dreaded the implications of what she had said. Squinting through the dark, he just about made out Lord Strallan, helping her across the threshold and into the house. So that was it, then. He really had lost her.

"Richard, what's the matter? You look like you've gone all pale."

Bending down, he pressed his lips to Agatha's artificially red ones, partly to take her mind off what he'd just seen and partly to stop her jabbering on.

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	4. Chapter 4

When Richard was told that there was a visitor in his office to see him- as opposed to a patient- he was surprised to find that it was Matthew Crawley waiting for him in the chair by his desk.

"Mr Crawley," he said, shaking hands with the young man, and sitting down himself behind the desk, "It certainly is a surprise to see you here. I hope everything is alright?"

"No, I'm afraid it's not, doctor," he replied, "That's not to say there's anything drastically wrong, only over the past few days- well, weeks, really- I've been getting a little bit concerned."

"Oh, I'm sorry. It's not Mrs Crawley, is it?" he asked, then added, "Lady Mary, that is," forgetting, as most people in Downton did, that there were now two Mrs Crawleys.

"No," Matthew smiled a little bit, "It's the other one. It's my mother."

His blood ran ever so slightly cold.

"She's not ill, I hope?" Richard asked trying to make his voice stay level, "She hasn't complained of any illness while she's been here, and anyway she knows very well that she shouldn't be working at the hospital if she isn't very well herself."

"I don't think you'd call it ill exactly," the young man frowned, trying to explain himself correctly, "Like you said, she's a sensible woman, and not one to take unnecessary risks with her health, or other people's for that matter. She's more... "out of sorts", I think you'd probably say, than strictly ill," he paused for a moment, "She's been acting most strangely at times."

"Give me an example," Richard told him, "What, specifically, has she done to make you worry about her?"

"Well, for instance, I visited her in the morning a few days ago," Matthew began, "It was half past ten and she wasn't awake. Now that's most unlike mother, for a start."

"We all sleep in from time to time," Richard pointed out, "Though I agree, she doesn't make a habit of it."

"That's not all, though," Matthew pressed, "Molesley sent Mrs Bird in to wake her up, and when she came downstairs, she looked quite dreadful, and she was complaining of a sore head. If it hadn't been my mother," he continued with an air of confession, "I would have said that she'd had... well, rather a convivial evening the night before."

"You think she'd been drinking?" Richard interpreted.

"Yes, that was the impression I couldn't help getting," Matthew told him, gravely, "And you have to admit, that is most unlike my mother."

"Well," Richard smiled a little, remembering her after dinner with her glass of brandy a couple of Saturdays ago, thinking he probably saw Isobel drinking a little bit more than her son gave her credit for, "I'd say it was _quite_ unlike your mother."

"And that's not all," Matthew continued, "It's as if-... It seems as if she's... I'm not sure. Sadder, I suppose I'd probably say. Yes," he decided, "I don't see her as much as I used to now that I don't live at Crawley House, but every time I do see her it's as if there is some worry or concern hanging over her. But, being my mother, she doesn't want to worry anyone with it, and she always tries to keep it hidden from me. She'd never admit to it."

"Do you think someone's mistreating her?" Richard asked sharply, the thought of Lord Strallan springing into his mind. He knew he had no evidence that he was anything other than a perfectly decent fellow, but nevertheless, the thought of him manhandling or bullying his Isobel suggested itself with such vivid and horrible brutality in Richard's mind that he couldn't ignore it, for all its improbability.

"I don't think so," Matthew replied, a little uneasily, "I can't think who would be. And mother's not the sort of person to let that happen to her."

"No," Richard conceded, a little relieved by this fact, "No, you're right, she's not."

"I'm more worried that she might be ill," he confessed after a moment, "But I can't ask her myself, she won't tell me, she couldn't bear me worrying about her. Do the symptoms that I've described sound like anything you know of?" he asked.

"Well, headaches and exhaustion- which would have made her sleep in- could point to any number of things," he told him, "But as seen as it's only happened the once and you seem to think she'd had a lively evening beforehand then I think we can safely guess that they weren't caused by anything more or less sinister than alcohol. And I can't think of any illness that causes one-off bouts of drinking, it's usually sustained. The melancholia; well, that could be caused by anything: her temperament- though I agree that's unlikely-;the nerves, perhaps; if indeed she is worried about something; external factors; The Change," he added rather ominously, "Though if that turns out to be the cause then I suggest you distance yourself from it as much a possible."

"What can be done for her?" Matthew asked, his brow furrowed.

"Well, until we know what's causing it, not a great deal," he replied, "If you think it's something physical I can certainly examine her, but if it's something other than that, then I'm afraid there's very little either of us can do for her."

"Would you, please," he requested, "Examine her? I think we should rule out all possibilities."

"Quite understandable," Richard replied, "And yes, by all means, I shall examine her. I think the tricky part, if you don't mind me saying so, will fall to your lot."

"Oh?"

"Persuading her that she needs to be examined."

…**...**

"Examined? Of course I don't need to be examined!"

Well, Dr. Clarkson had got one thing right for a start. His mother was watching him with a mixture of disbelief and amusement on her face.

"What on earth gave you that idea, Matthew?" she asked him, still smiling.

"Mother, I've been very worried about you recently."

"My darling boy, why?"

"Because, well, because you've seemed so sad."

The smile faded from her face, he noticed as much before she could repair it.

"Matthew, there's nothing about me for you to worry about," she told him, closing her eyes, clasping his hands in hers, "It's very sweet of you to be so concerned, but you mustn't think anything more of it. I'm alright, really, I am," she must have known that he didn't believe her, because now she tried a slightly different tack, "Worry about Mary, that's your job now. You mustn't worry about me."

"What's been the matter with you, then? These past few weeks?"

"Nothing, nothing," she told him, sounding weary even as she said it.

He raised an eyebrow.

"I've been a little tired, that's all," she told him.

"Well, then," Matthew told her decisively, "We need to find out what's causing it."

"What's causing it?" she laughed for a moment, "Matthew, I'm an old woman. There's no need to ask what's causing it!"

"You're not old," he told her firmly, then, thinking about it; becoming more puzzled by the question, "Are you?"

She smiled at him, somehow completely understanding his bizarre statement.

"By most people's standards I am, I'm afraid."

"You don't seem to me to have aged at all since I was ten," he reflected.

"And you're still a very sweet little boy to be saying things like that to your old mother," she told him, "Now, can we please drop the ridiculous subject of my needing to be examined? There's nothing the matter with me."

"Mother," he told her warningly, "I'd really rather you did. I've asked Dr. Clarkson about it, he said it would be fine."

"Oh, so you've been talking about me to Dr. Clarkson behind my back?" her voice sounded suddenly sharp, "And what did he have to say on the matter?"

"That he agrees with me," Matthew told her, "That we need to find out what's wrong."

"There's nothing wrong!" she half-shouted, springing up from her chair and stalking across the room to the window, staring blindly through the pane. Her arms were folded tightly around her middle, and a muscle in her jaw was twitching.

Matthew sighed. He wasn't used to his mother behaving like this. They were silent for a long time; her standing at the window and him waiting anxiously in his chair. Then she sniffed heartily, as if she had been crying, but when she turned back to face him he could not make out any tears on her cheeks.

"I'm sorry, my darling," she told him, sitting back down and clasping his hands in hers, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't get cross with you. You're only trying to look after me. You're a very good son."

"Yes, mother, I'm trying to do what's best for you," he told her gently.

"I know," she replied, and then, as if it cost her some effort, "And if it means so much to you," she took a breath, "I will go and see the doctor, and see if he can find anything wrong with me."

Matthew heaved a sigh of relief.

"I think it would be for the best. I really do."

His mother looked as if she was not quite sure about that, but she uttered no further words of complaint.

…**...**

In spite of the fact that she had promised her son that she would do this, she presented herself in the doctor's office with the greatest reluctance. A physical examination from Richard was exactly what she did not want. Not under these circumstances, anyway. But he had as good a professional manner as any man, and she could tell as he felt her pulse at her wrist, taking care not to apply to much pressure, that he was doing his best to make her feel comfortable.

The fact was, though, that he was failing abysmally. Every time he touched her, however courteously, she was torn between the pleasant hum it sent shivering through her skin deep into her flesh and the ghastly thoughts of whether this was how he touched Agatha shooting through her mind. Her mind's eye, her treacherous imagination, couldn't help but replace his fingers with his lips; think of his softly kissing the inside of her wrists and on her forehead as he felt for signs of fever.

"I'd like to take your temperature, please, if I may, Mrs Crawley."

Oh, heaven's above! She almost told him that he couldn't. She couldn't have a thermometer anywhere near her when she was this hot and bothered. She felt her face flush still further. As she made no verbal objection, though, he took her silence for assent.

"Hmm, you've a little bit of a temperature," he told her, examining the result a few minutes later, and, smiling a little stiffly, added, "Nothing to be concerned about, though."

"There's nothing wrong with me," she insisted, rather petulantly, her eyes fixed on the smooth curve of his silvery hair over the crown of his head, allowing herself to imagine for a moment how soft it would be touch as he bend over a little, rifling through his medical bag, "Is there?"

"I haven't found anything out of order so for," he agreed, without looking up.

For some reason, her insides clenched to hear him talk about her body as if it was some kind of mechanical apparatus. He stood up straight, and turned to her. He was holding his stethoscope.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Crawley, but I think I'm going to have to listen to your chest."

…**...**

Really, it was dreadful enough having to be a doctor for all of his friends and neighbours, let alone the woman he was in love with. Was he in love with Isobel Crawley? Quite possibly.

To her credit, she did not flinch or act in the slightest bit surprised at what what he had said, though he was sure she was. She simply start to unbutton her blouse, and take it off, placing it carefully beside her on the examination table.

He did not look at her until it was absolutely necessary. Putting his stethoscope in his ears and holding it as carefully as he could at the bottom of the curve of her delicious breast, at the top of her corset. And her heart was going crackers inside her chest. Almost as crackers as his was, but he didn't need a stethoscope to tell him that.

Then he made the dire mistake of eye looking into her eyes. Her pupils were unmistakeably dark, as he suspected his own were. In the end, he had to wrench his gaze away from hers but what he saw next wasn't any more conducive to cooling him down. Around the cool metal of the stethoscope, her chest seemed to be burning red. This couldn't be happening.

He realised that he was still standing with his hand pressed to her chest, trying to listen to her heart. Quickly, he moved away, walked around the examination table to listen to her heart from the back. He couldn't help but note the way her back arched a little, and her shoulder blades curved inwards a little with surprise at the cool of the metal.

He couldn't watch the skin of her back. It was too much, such a wide kissable expanse. Instead, he focused on her ear; her beautiful petite little ear, the little pearl earrings she wore, the beautifully contained curl of blonde hair that rested rebelliously beside it. This woman was everything he had ever wanted. Everything.

He closed his eyes. This had been a terrible idea, the only consolation being that it hadn't been his. But he had agreed to it, though he should have known that this would happen. It was utterly unprofessional, completely compromising for both of them, it was... so very, very right. He loved Isobel Crawley, and he wanted her. And if the signs her body was giving out were anything to go by she at least wanted him too.

He raised his hand, ready to touch the skin of her delicate shoulder.

And the door opened, revealing the very worst person who could have walked in at such a moment.

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	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you for your reviews, they were wonderful. Credit to Miss Puppet for the most beautiful and hilarious speculative review I have ever received or seen.**

The only thing that Richard saw as he made his way hurriedly around Isobel to stand in front of her to hide her modesty, was the way that her bosom- her breasts pressed beautifully against the top of her corset- heaved delightfully in startlement. He cursed himself, trying his best to banish the image as thoroughly as possible from his head, not to mention the thought of other, more pleasurable activities that might cause the same reaction in her. He had the feeling he was going to need a clear mind for this conversation.

"Agatha," he said sharply to the woman standing just inside the doorway of his office, torn between a mixture of guilt and alarm at having been so nearly found by her in a compromising situation with Isobel, and irritation with Agatha for intruding on them.

"Oh, I'm sorry," a smile crept into her face that he was sure had more to do with smugness at having embarrassed poor Isobel, who was now furiously fighting her way back into her blouse behind him, than to do with embarrassment on her own part, "I didn't realise you had a visitor."

"A patient," he corrected her coldly, "We were-..." he couldn't think why his voice and mind chose that moment to falter, "We were in the middle of an examination," he affirmed, out of sheer defiance to the disbelieving look on her face, "Agatha, I'm sure I must have warned you that you must never forget to knock when you come to this office for this very reason."

She paid no heed to this reprimand, and instead leant around him to address Isobel, who thankfully seemed to have refastened her buttons by now, and was looking- remarkably- almost composed.

"Mrs Crawley, isn't it?" she asked, in a voice that was slightly louder than necessary, as if speaking to someone who was slightly deaf or stupid.

To her credit, he thought, Isobel stood up off the examination table with her head held high and returned Agatha's handshake without the slightest sign of the distaste which he was sure she must be feeling at the moment.

"Miss Patmore?" she asked as civilly as could be expected.

"I go by my late husband's name," she replied, "Mrs Price. I've heard a lot about you, Mrs Crawley, from dear Richard," she added, with a definitely ominous slant to her tone.

He wished she wouldn't refer to him like that, not with Isobel here.

"All good I hope?" Isobel replied, her voice perking a little to spite Agatha's negative tone, throwing a casual glance in his direction that nearly stopped his heart.

Agatha, rather stonily, did not answer her question. Richard smiled at his shoes for a second. He knew beyond doubt that he'd never said a word against Isobel, not to Agatha. It would have been too much of a betrayal, even to concede that she had once wrongly predicted the weather in front of Agatha.

His head shortly snapped up, though, as Agatha addressed him, in a rather accusatory tone.

"I came to see if you'd be finished for the evening," she informed him, "I didn't know you'd be working late."

"I told you yesterday that I had to see Mrs Crawley this evening," he reminded her pointedly.

She shrugged a little.

"The time must have slipped my mind," she told him dismissively, "I'm sure you understand, Mrs Crawley, the memory's not what it was at our age, is it?"

"Oh, yes, I understand you perfectly."

Richard didn't dare look at Isobel. She said it so coolly, so quietly witheringly, with such infinite composure that a stranger, like Agatha, might miss that what Isobel was really telling them was that she had their number, she had them down to the ground, she saw right through them.

"Then, I take it you're all finished here?" she responded smoothly, "I'm sure Mrs Crawley won't mind if you leave now, will you, Mrs Crawley? We have a table waiting for us at the Grantham Arms."

"Mrs Crawley is not going to have to mind whether or not I leave now," Richard replied, partly out of an irritation with Agatha, partly a wish to stay with Isobel a little longer; it was unjust that their time together should be cut so abruptly short like this, without so much as a warning, "Because I am going to escort her home," now he dared to look at Isobel, "It is the very least I can do."

Agatha seemed rather taken aback by this declaration; at any rate she seemed unable to think of a reply.

"Thank you," Isobel took advantage of the unexpected silence to reply, and smiled at his softly, "That would be very nice of you."

As much as the gesture and her words warmed him, they also seemed to alarm Agatha into finding her tongue.

"I'll come with you too," she told them, rather warningly.

"Oh, my dear, that won't be necessary," he replied smoothly, but with an undertone of determination, "Don't trouble yourself. Anyway, you'd better go and claim that table that's waiting for us, hadn't you?" He smiled at her speechlessness, "I shouldn't be very long."

…**...**

It turned out to be a lovely evening. The streets of Downton were too narrow to admit the full view of the sun setting, but nevertheless its beautifully altered light tinged the colour of the sky above the rooftops. They walked in companionable silence, at a gentle pace, for the first few yards, then, when Isobel was sure they were well shot of Agatha, she spoke to him in quite a quiet voice.

"She'll make you pay, you know," she warned him, "For coming with me instead of her. You'll live to regret it."

"I don't care," he replied, sounding, she thought, a little impulsive, "If she wants to set ludicrous conditions like that with me, she can forget it."

Knowing him, she suspected he was being a little overly bold, but nevertheless his bravado made her smile.

"She knew I was with you," he added seriously a moment later, watching his pacing feet as he spoke, "She didn't forget."

She knew he was telling her as much in deadly earnest and so didn't question his statement, or what it meant, at all, not aloud, only uttered a quiet, "Oh," and gave him rather a shy sideways glance.

"So did you find anything wrong with me?" she asked him after a moment, "Before our examination was prematurely terminated?"

"There's nothing wrong with you," he told her, with such tenderness as to surprise her and make her look at him again, "Nothing whatever."

He was looking at her, gazing at her, rather fixedly, an open admiration in his eyes that she had never seen before. It was clear to her that he meant what he had just said, he meant it in more ways than just the medical. And it very nearly unnerved her. She had only meant physically, but he rather seemed to have taken it a little bit further.

But she brushed it off, unable to quite contemplate the implications of what he might or might not mean, with a slight laugh and an, "I told you so."

The instant he looked away, as though he suddenly felt foolish, she regretted doing so and wished she hadn't.

"So do they do a good supper at the Grantham Arms?" she asked him after a few more moments of silent walking, wanting to keep talking to him and to make sure was talking to her.

"Passable," he replied, "Rather good on occasions."

"Listen, Richard," she told him, a little rashly, but provoked into it my his sudden silence, "Don't be a stranger at Crawley House. I know," she added hastily, "That you've got this new woman on the cards, but that shouldn't mean that we don't talk at all, should it? We're friends," she told him firmly, hoping he would understand her in the way she meant to be understood, "She can't stop that, can she?"

"No," he replied, after a moment's pause, "No, you're right, she can't."

She smiled at him, and he smiled back, making her smile even more.

"I'm glad."

…**...**

By the time they reached Crawley House, she had, a little shyly, linked her arm through his. His heart swelled a little with pride, as it never did when Agatha held his arm. Agatha, what was she worth compared to Isobel? Isobel was like the sun and the moon to him; bright and unearthly beauty in equal measures. Isobel was... everything. She was wonderful.

They mounted the steps of Crawley House together.

"Have you got time for a cup of tea?" she asked him, "Or are you needed urgently at the Grantham Arms?"

"Oh, no doubt I'm needed urgently," he replied to her, smiling, "But I've still got time for some tea."

He saw her grin too.

"Hello, Molesley," she told her butler, as he took their hats and coats, "Dr. Clarkson's going to stay for some tea."

"Very good, ma'am. I'll make some fresh and send it through when you've joined the gentleman in the sitting room."

"What gentleman?" she asked him.

"Sir Anthony Strallan, ma'am," he replied, "Called to see you. He said he wanted to pay his compliments, and to ensure you'd recovered from the other evening. He brought you those flowers," he added indicating to the large bouquet in a vase on the hall window sill, "He's waiting for you in the sitting room."

Suddenly, Richard did not feel at all inclined to stay. He felt sick. He had forgotten, utterly and completely about this. He cleared his throat. Whatever had happened "the other evening" he did not want to have to find out about it like this.

"Actually, Mrs Crawley, I'm not sure that I do have the time to stay," he told her abruptly, "I really must get back. If you excuse me."

He took his hat and coat back from Molesley. Isobel was looking rather startled at his sudden change of heart, but told him;

"Yes, of course, I understand."

"Good evening," he told her curtly, making his way sharply out of the front door, pacing down the steps and onto the street before she could say anything else.

Isobel Crawley might be everything, but she was not his. Somehow, he had allowed himself to forget that, foolishly. He was so intent on his path that he did not see the hurt, confused look on her face at his hasty reversal of his decision. He thought that he probably had some apologies to Agatha to compose.

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	6. Chapter 6

**I apologise for the delay, I am back at school now, and busy. Thank you for all of the reviews, I love them and they are wonderful. **

Though Richard's sudden departure certainly puzzled her, Isobel didn't really have time to dwell on it just at the moment, not with Anthony Strallan waiting in the sitting room. She sighed in frustration, but composed herself, and smiled quite genuinely a moment later as she opened the door and saw Lord Strallan sitting in an armchair, reading the newspaper.

"Sir Anthony," she held out her hand to him as he stood up, "How are you?"

"Very well, Mrs Crawley," he told her in reply, kissing her knuckles most civilly, "The more pressing question is how are _you_?"

"Oh, much recovered," she told him as dismissively as possible, as they both sat down, "I can't thank you enough for taking care of me. And thank you so much for the flowers, they really are lovely."

"I'm glad you like them," he replied.

"Have you got enough tea?" she asked him.

"Yes, quite enough, thank you. Mrs Crawley," he added, a touch more seriously after a few moments, "I'm afraid that enquiring after your health wasn't my sole purpose in coming here, ungallant as it makes me sound. Rather, I'm here to ask another favour of you."

"Sir Anthony," she told him, firmly, "As you well pointed out yourself, if it hadn't been for you I'd have probably ended up going home via the roof of the big house the other night. It's probably safe to say that I owe you a favour."

He smiled politely, acknowledging that she probably did have a point there.

"Well, it's about this dress," he began, "For Edith. I had a telegram from the dressmaker this morning to tell me that it was finished."

"That was prompt," Isobel remarked.

"Quite," he agreed, "Well, I need to drive into York to pick it up. The problem is that, knowing me, I'm bound to make some awful mannish blunder. I really need a sensible woman to come with me to ensure that everything's in order."

"And you'd like me to?" she surmised.

"If it's not too much trouble."

"No, I'd love to come," she told him sincerely, "Only, I wonder that you still consider me sensible after my...my rather eccentric behaviour the other night."

She was sure that she saw his eyes twinkle a little.

"Oh, Mrs Crawley, I assure you that now and again we all have our eccentric moments," he smiled broadly, and she could not help but laugh a little.

"Very well, then," she replied, "When shall we go? It's too late to go today, and tomorrow I'm working at the hospital all day. What about the day after?"

"Alas, I'm engaged to have a late lunch with Lord Grantham that day," he told her, "What about the next day?"

"Yes, that should be fine," she replied, "I shall look forward to it."

…**...**

Even as the day wore on, though, it seemed that Isobel couldn't quite Richard out of her mind. In the morning, when she had got into Sir Anthony's car- he had picked her up most promptly at the front of Crawley House at nine o'clock- she had seen Richard walking along the street on the other side of the road. She had smiled and waved at him, but he had only given the slightest, rather cold, nod and walked on quickly. Added to his hasty departure the last time he had been at Crawley House, she really was beginning to wonder if she had done something serious to offend him.

For a while she tried to listen attentively to Sir Anthony's cheerful chatter. It was mainly about Edith, and their wedding, and Edith; and at first she was pleasantly struck by his genuine affection for his future wife. But then, after a while, when he persisted with the topic without any sense of tiring, she began to get rather tired with it herself. Really, unhappy as she was with her own situation in this respect, she could only listen to so much of somebody else's happiness without feeling a little bitter. Her mind wandered back to Richard, and his peculiar behaviour, and his woman, and how entirely disagreeable the whole thing was.

She had thought that by the time they were in York, and they were kept busy, she would be able to bring herself to concentrate better. And she was right, but for the most part their dealings at the dress shop were simple and quickly dealt with. Then, her mind was free to run riot again.

They stood on the pavement in front of the shop, waiting for the driver to bring the motorcar round, when the dress in the window caught Isobel's eye. It was cream, made in line with the modern fashions. Its casual, loose fit and its light colour meant that it could have almost passed for a day dress, if it had not been for the obvious quality and richness of the fabric, the intricacy of the pattern- of inter-twining tiny blue flowers- and the occasional smattering of small beads scattered across it and sown on carefully, which Isobel highly were pearls. It was an extraordinary dress. In her eyes it was one thing and one thing only; it was a wedding dress for a lady of mature years.

She had been eyeing it carefully for some time and had not noticed that Sir Anthony's eyes had followed hers.

"That's a very fine article of clothing," he remarked.

""Yes," she agreed, "It is."

If she married Richard, she thought, she would wear that dress. It was probably far more expensive than she could afford, but then it seemed increasingly that Richard too was beyond her reach, so there was no point, really, in limiting her imaginings.

"Would you mind if I said that I think you would look remarkably fine in that dress, Mrs Crawley?" he asked her rather cautiously, eyeing her warily.

She flushed a little, her wandering mind, almost, having been caught red handed.

"No," she replied, smiling at him, "I don't suppose I would mind."

The car arrived, and he helped her, as best he could with his injured arm, into the back seat.

…**...**

The drive home from York took longer than going there had, and it was growing dark by the time Isobel set foot again on the pavement by the gate of Crawley House. Saying goodbye to Sir Anthony, telling him to spare himself the trouble of accompanying her to the door, she made her way up the path to her front door, her mind still flitting through thoughts of Richard and matrimony and beautiful dresses.

She was tremendously surprised when Molesley told her that Mrs Hughes was here to see her. For some reason, it made her think that something was wrong, and she entered the sitting room rather cautiously.

The housekeeper sat in the same chair where Sir Anthony had sat a few nights before, still wearing her coat and hat, and rather primly upright, as if she was nervous or felt as if she was intruding.

"Elsie?" Isobel herself spoke nervously, as she sat down in the armchair next to her, "What's the matter?"

She had been right, something was the matter; the housekeeper did not trouble to correct her, and her expression was one of great solemnity.

"I thought I'd better tell you myself," she told her, "And make sure you heard from a source who at least means kindly."

"Tell me what?" Isobel asked, confused.

"Some invitations arrived at the house today," Elsie continued gravely, "For Beryl and for some of the other servants. They were inviting us to a little garden party, at Dr. Clarkson's cottage next week."

"And?" Isobel pressed, for surely this could not be all.

"And they were signed "From Richard and Agatha"," Elsie told her.

Isobel's stomach sank, and so, judging by Elsie's reaction did the corners of her mouth. But for a moment she did not register the look on Elsie's face; she did not register anything except the image, flashing from the back f her mind to the front, of herself in that beautiful wedding dress, her hand in Richard's.

"And there's more," Elsie told her, sounding very much as if she was clenching her jaw as she spoke, "There's been talk... well, Beryl says that there has, just around the village, idle tittle-tattle, to the effect that he's going to marry her."

And her heart broke there and then.

"Marry?" she repeated, stupidly, "Her?"

"It's only talk," Elsie added hurriedly, "It could be wrong, I hope it is, but I thought you should hear it from me first."

But Isobel did not hear the end of Elsie's explanations for her honesty. She had buried her face in her hands, and was crying quietly. A few moments later, she felt Elsie's arm around her shoulder as the housekeeper perched herself on the arm of Isobel's armchair to hug her gently.

…**...**

The night before the garden party- much later on she had found her own invitation in her letters that she had not opened at breakfast- Isobel lay in her bed, unable to sleep. She was perfectly comfortable, she was not hungry or thirsty or in any physical pain or even particularly energetic; she was just wide awake and thinking, loudly.

It had taken her a long time to decide if she was going to go to the garden party at all. With Richard's recent hostility towards her, she didn't think it was really worth it. But she had always been one for putting a brave face on things. She would manage, she would wear her nicest clothes and she would talk to Elsie and Beryl.

She lay on her side, her arm curled upwards to her head, aware of the gap in the curtains that she couldn't bring herself to leave the warmth of the sheets to close. And she was thinking of Richard. Richard, Richard, Richard.

She wanted him back, as they had been in the old days, before this woman had shown up and ruined everything in between them. But now, she realised, she wanted more than even that. She had imagined herself marrying him. She wanted him here when she couldn't sleep. She wanted him- she could imagine it so vividly- lying behind her, his arm wrapping around her waist, his body pressed against hers, and his other hand by her head playing with her hair.

In the dark, she started to cry, not quietly like she had in front of Elsie. She wanted him to love her, she needed him to. She was here, his, waiting for him, but he didn't want her. For the first time in many years, certainly since the war, she felt truly wretched.

But, in spite of it, when she had calmed down, and breathing returned to a normal rate, she realised that she had also come to a decision.

…**...**

Even though it was his party, he seemed to prefer to stay inside the house, near the refreshment table, rather than mixing with his guests. Even when he was alone in the sitting room- albeit with the doors wide open onto the garden so that all of the light fell in- he seemed content to stay in there. She was glad of it, it made her task a little easier.

She hovered with Elsie and Beryl for a while, making conversation but with half of her mind lingering irremovably on what she was about to do.

Finally, when everyone seemed suitably busy, and Richard was alone inside, she took her chance and stole inside with him.

He was watching the pendulum of the grandfather clock quite intently, and she had to clear her throat- standing rather tentatively in the doorway- for him to notice her. When he looked up she was intensely thankful that he smiled at her.

"Hello," she spoke, "Would you mind if we had a word together? In private?"

He looked a little surprised but he stood up nevertheless, closing the door that led to the garden, shutting out a lot of the light.

"What about, Mrs Crawley?" a mixture of formality and intimacy that the sudden lack of light had given them.

Neither of them had moved far away from the door, they were very close. She could feel him near her.

"Don't marry her," she told him in little more than a half-gasping whisper, pleading, "Please don't marry her."

**Please review if you have the time.**


	7. Chapter 7

Isobel waited for him in complete distraction, back in her own house that evening, but completely unable to settle. She feared she may have said too much. Oh, what was the point in pretending anything else: she _had _said too much, there was no question of it! He hadn't reacted then, but now he was coming to see her and she just knew...

This was the end of them. This was the end of everything they had left. Everything that Agatha hadn't ruined for them, she had ruined herself in a stupid, simple little sentence. She didn't know what had possessed her. Unable to suppress her groan, she sank down into her chair, the scene, her foolish foolish words, replaying over in her head.

…**...**

"Don't marry her. Please don't marry her."

He had stared at her, his eyes gleaming in the shadowy dimness. His face was one of complete surprise and she could tell he was having difficulty believing what he had heard. She swallowed heavily.

"It's not right," she continued, trying desperately to justify her comment in his eyes, "She's not right for you. She doesn't deserve you. She doesn't love you."

His mouth opened to speak, and she was suddenly frightened of the reproof that she was sure would come, she cut across him hurriedly.

"Please just think about it. I don't want you to do anything you'd regret later."

"Do you think I'd marry anyone without thinking about it first?" he asked rather testily.

"Of course not," she replied, "But-..."

She didn't know how to finish. She suddenly felt horrendously uncomfortable. There was a very loud pause. Her heart seemed to be hammering, waiting for him to speak.

"This is hardly the place for such a discussion," he pointed out, perhaps more to himself than to her.

"No," she agreed, grateful that on this score at least he seemed to have read her mind, "It's not."

He looked up at her carefully, apparently examining her face in the half-light making it in through the front room curtains. They were still both standing up against the door, the door that separated them from most of Downton, milling about Richard's garden, at Agatha's invitation, at her party.

"You didn't want to have a party, did you?" she observed quietly, feeling a little inane, but voicing her thoughts anyway as they came to her, "You've never had a party in all the time I've known you. She made you, didn't she?"

He nodded curtly.

"Yes, she did," he replied, with touching, she almost dared say encouraging, honesty.

There was a quiet pause for a moment. His arms leant horizontally on the door at the level of his eye, supporting his weight, so that his hand felt very near her cheek.

"Mrs Crawley," he continued, "Isobel," he corrected himself, making her soften inside a little, "Would you mind very much if we continued this discussion later on? I feel that there are things which need to be said, things... between the two of us. But not now. For one thing, I can't quite think at the moment."

She nodded wordlessly, taking in, trying to make sense of what he was saying.

"I shall be in all evening," she replied, " There's nowhere to go. I think I'll go home now, if you will excuse me. I'm sorry but I don't feel much like staying for the rest of the party."

"I understand," he replied, "Would you like me to come around before or after supper?"

"Whichever suits you best," she replied, standing up properly, straightening her shoulders slightly, "Any time is convenient for me."

She made her way across the sitting room to the door to the hall. Standing in the doorway, ceased by a sudden, terrifying impulse, painfully aware of his eyes following her across the room, she turned back towards him, looked him full in the face, and spoke those fatal words, without so much as thinking.

"I'm not asking you to marry me instead. But would it be so terrible if I was?"

…**...**

Her second groan was interrupted by the sound of a knock on the door. She froze. It was him, it could only be him.

She sat unable to move in her armchair, listening to Molesley's footsteps approaching the front door; then sprang to her feet like a woman possessed as she heard Richard's voice at the door, straightening her skirts out rather frantically.

The result was that when he appeared in the sitting room she thought she must look rather flustered. There was a moment's silence.

"Dr. Clarkson," she spoke first, more cheerfully than she was really feeling, "Do have a seat."

He sat down in the chair nearest hers. She was partly grateful; it meant that they would not have to raise their voices, and there was no chance of Molesley or Mrs Bird overhearing them, but on the other hand, closeness to Richard... especially if he was here to break with her for good. He sat with earnest posture, leaning forward slightly.

He was watching her closely. She flushed deeper.

"I don't think there's any point in making bones about why I'm here," he remarked finally, breaking the heavy silence between the two of them, smiling a little wryly, "The small matter of the rather extraordinary things you said to me this afternoon."

"I wish you'd forget them," she told him lightly, "Just ignore me. I shouldn't have spoken."

He sighed heavily.

"I can't, Isobel," he told her heavily, with an air of confession, "I can't forget what you said to me. I have to know what you meant by it."

She swallowed.

"I should have thought that it was obviously," she remarked, suddenly irritated at having been put on the spot like this.

"Only up to a point," he replied, rather tersely, "But I did gather that you think my marrying Mrs Price would be unwise."

"To say the least," she replied concisely, matching his terseness.

"And what, might I ask, gave you the idea that I was going to marry her? Or who, should I say?"

"Mrs Hughes did," she replied uncertainly, "She said that there had been talk to that effect."

"Oh, Isobel," he sighed again, "You know as well as I do that the talk around here... well, you wouldn't want to take it as gospel, would you?"

She coloured a little again. He certainly wasn't wrong about that, and him telling her so made her feel even more foolish.

"I'm sorry," he told her, a little more softly, "But I'm only trying to get to the bottom of this. I want to make sure there are no misunderstandings between us."

"It's alright," she told him, "That's what I want too."

"Quite," he agreed, "Then, would you mind telling me why you don't think I should marry Agatha?"

"I thought you weren't going to?" she asked quickly, "That's what you've just said, isn't it?"

"It's true, I have no immediate plans to," he told her, "But I want to know why you think it would be a bad idea if I did."

She swallowed hard again. She wasn't quite ready to answer that honestly.

"I don't think she loves you," she told him, "I think she's using you. I've been talking to her sister, and she says she's a nasty piece of work. She just wants someone to look after her, someone to provide for her. I don't think she really cares who it is, or who'll look after you in return."

"I think she can be forgiven for wanting to assuage her loneliness," he replied in a serious tone, "Agatha has her faults, she has many of them, but I don't think either of us can blame her for that particular one."

"But you deserve better, Richard," she told him, her heart rising to her throat, her eyes flashing with vehemence, "Don't marry her just because you feel sorry for her. You deserve someone who loves you. _Loves you_," she repeated, feeling the words flutter through her body, her heart, as she spoke them more wholly than she'd spoken words before, "More than anything in the world."

"It may surprise you to know, Isobel," he told her softly, sadly, "That such individuals are rather thin on the ground."

She didn't dare to contradict him though every fibre of her being told her to. Not yet. Instead she blinked, and said nothing.

"Besides," he continued, "Agatha's not the only one who feels lonely. There are often times," he confessed, "When I feel rather alone myself. I have to admit, over the past few months, her company has had the advantage of being readily available whenever I require it."

"Despite the fact that you have nothing in common," she supplied.

The fact that he did not answer made her think that her supposition had probably been right. She continued, feeling truly miserable;

"I thought you knew you could always depend on my company? Richard, you never need feel lonely as long as I live here. My door is always open to you."

He did not smile at her as whole-heartedly as she had expected him to, and it puzzled her.

"Yes," he replied, "I do know. But I also know you've been rather too busy for my company lately, rather too preoccupied."

"What do you mean?" she asked, more puzzled still.

He frowned.

"Well, Sir Anthony, of course," he replied, looking highly uncomfortable for some reason, "I know I wasn't supposed to know, but, well, I do."

"Yes," she responded, still confused, "But why should the fact that I'm helping Sir Anthony with his wedding present to Edith mean that I haven't go the time for you?"

"You're what?"

…**...**

She blinked at him, tremendously surprised by the vehemence of his reaction.

"I'm helping Sir Anthony with his wedding present for Edith," she repeated, "It's a lovely dress," she added, explaining, "From a very expensive shop in York."

"So you're not...? You're not?"

"Not what?" she asked.

"You're not having an affair with him?!" he half-exclaimed, unable to quite believe it.

"I'm... I am most certainly am not!" she replied, with merciful vehemence, her face colouring quite scarlet, "Richard, I'm shocked, completely shocked! What _on earth _gave you that idea?"

"You were always together, you kept saying you were doing favours for him," he racked his brains, trying to think where it had all begun, "I saw you coming out of the Marigold Tearooms with him! What was I supposed to think?"

"How was he to know that's where all of the courting couples go?" she asked incredulously, "Honestly, Richard, I don't think I've ever heard of someone jumping to conclusions so easily! Did you really think I was having an affair with my cousin's fiancé? Poor Edith."

"I didn't know what to think," he confessed, "It just seemed that my worst fear was coming true. But, wait," he continued, remembering, "I saw him going into your house with you, one night. He was helping you home for some reason. You can't blame me for jumping to conclusions about that."

Comprehension dawned on her face.

"That night," she told him, with great dignity, "I had had a little bit too much to drink."

He blinked at her, surprised.

"Something had rather upset me," she continued, "And I spent the evening in the company of Mrs Hughes and Mrs Patmore. The latter of whom seemed quite enthusiastic about my drowning my sorrows, quite literally, in a bottle of brandy."

"Oh." There was nothing else he could think of to say. He smiled slightly at the rather amusing mental image of Isobel drinking with the cook.

His smile only seemed to aggravate her, though.

"Really, Richard," she scolded, "I can't believe you thought that of me. I really can't believe that you have such a low opinion of me."

"I don't!" he exclaimed, "Anything but."

"Then why, why did you think Sir Anthony and I were-..."

"I thought he was in love with you," he confessed, "You have to admit that that's not so unlikely. And I thought you loved him. I couldn't see why you wouldn't. He's a rich man, he has property, and standing. He has everything a woman could want."

"Richard, if you think that's all I want, you don't know me at all." Her words were met by silence for a moment, and then another, and she pressed on, "If I did want someone at all, I'd want a good man. That's not to say Sir Anthony's not, but a good, kind, intelligent man. Handsome too, I shouldn't wonder, and I ought to tell you that I don't find Sir Anthony attractive like that at all. And, more than anything, I'd want a man who could love me completely."

She looked up into his eyes. For a second they seemed to be thinking of the same thing. Then they both blinked at the same time, and the moment was broken, but the silence endured.

"So," he declared, arranging circumstances out loud in the hope of arranging them in his head, "You're not in love with Sir Anthony. And I'm not going to marry Agatha."

"You're not?" she repeated, her eyes brightening infinitesimally.

"I don't want to," he stated flatly.

There was a pause. He saw a muscle clench and unclench in her jaw.

"That's not what I asked," she told him.

"I don't want to," he repeated.

"Will you?" she pressed, looking panicked, distress clear for a second before she could hide it.

"I don't know."

"You can't not know after what we've just said. Which is it, yes or no?"

"Will _you_ marry me instead?"

He heard her gasp sharply. He didn't know what made him say it, the words escaped his lips before he could stop them. She stared at him. He closed his eyes for a second. He could only be honest now.

"You said I deserved a woman who loves me more than anything in the world. Well, that's how I feel about you, though it's taken all of this foolish business to make me realise it. I want you, Isobel, as my companion, as my wife. No one else. I only hope you can consider feeling that way about me too."

"Oh, Richard."

His eyes searched her face.

"But if you don't want to, don't feel like you're obliged to say yes," he assured her quietly, "I don't want you to marry me just because you feel sorry for me."

As she looked up he saw there were tears in her eyes.

"If you only knew," she whispered softly, "How I felt when I thought you and she were-..."

"Probably the same as I did when I thought you were with Lord Strallan."

"Yes," she agreed, "Yes. I've never felt like that before. Like a piece of me wasn't just missing, like it had been stolen. It was quite a shock," she confessed, her eyes wide, "I wasn't even sure how I felt before I thought I couldn't have you. Then I knew. It hurt."

"Oh, Isobel," he reached forwards boldly, taking hold of her hands, caressing her fingers, " I'm so sorry. I love you."

She bowed her head, leaning forwards in her chair, pressing her face into their joined hands, kissing his fingers, before resting her head on them and murmuring, "I love you too," into their skin.

**I am by no means in love with this chapter, and I can't help feeling like I might have made a mess of it. It was very difficult to write, and I'd love to know what you think. Please review if you have the time. **


	8. Chapter 8

**Apologies for the delay. It's been a beast of a week. **

"Will you?" he asked her, after a long pause.

She raised her head up from where it had rested on their joined hands, smiling at him a little blearily; almost as if seeing him for the first time, and stroking her thumb along the back of his hand.

"Will I what, Richard?" she asked in reply.

"Will you marry me?" he repeated, "I meant it before. It wasn't a figure of speech, or anything like that. I love you, I want to marry you. Will you marry me?"

In spite of how she'd yearned to hear him ask her that question, say those words to her before, she felt something, some block of solid restraint in her, preventing her from giving the answer that she so wanted to give. She heaved a sigh, stroking the back of his hand again to placate him through the delay caused by her need to reason rather than succumb immediately to the heady temptations of how she wanted him.

"What about Agatha?" she asked levelly.

Predictably, his face fell.

"I'm not saying no," she added hastily, "Believe me, Richard, I want nothing more than to marry you. But what about her?"

"I never gave her my word," he insisted, "Believe me, I never said anything of the sort to her."

"No, I've no doubt you didn't. But that doesn't mean she got the same impression. After all," she explained carefully, "I thought you were going to marry her, and I was trying my best not to believe it. Heaven only knows what kind of conclusions she jumped to."

"But what does it matter?" he asked, leaning forwards, disentangling one of his hands to cup her face softly, staring into her eyes, "We have each other now, what does anything else matter?"

It was tempting, very tempting, to yield entirely under the intensity of his passionate and clear-cut gaze, but Isobel, just about, kept a level head, exhaling deeply.

"I think, my darling, it matters a great deal," she told him gently, "And I think you know it does."

There was a short silence.

"She could drag your reputation through the mud," she pointed out, "Saying that you made her promises that you never intended to keep. She ruin your position in this town. I won't let her do that, if I can help it. I won't let you let that happen to yourself, not for me."

She hoped that her tone conveyed that she would hear no arguments on this matter. He looked at her for a very long moment.

"There's nothing I wouldn't do for you," he told her earnestly, his hand tightening on hers, the other hand, cupping her elbow, bringing her forearms closer towards him, "I'd even try to seduce an old witch like Agatha to make you jealous."

"Yes, and a marvellous idea that turned out to be," she pointed out.

He raised his eyebrow a little.

"It worked, though, didn't it?" he asked.

"Admirably," she conceded, "But that doesn't help us now."

"Us," he whispered, trailing his finger tenderly down the inside of her arm down to her wrist, "I love to hear you say that."

Again, she risked becoming quite seriously distracted by him, and his words, and what he was doing to her. She quirked a tiny smile at him.

"I like to say it. But seriously," she added, "What are we to do?"

"I won't let her keep us apart," he declared passionately, "I will re-compensate her any way other than being apart from you, Isobel."

"I wouldn't dream of allowing her to keep us apart either," she told him, gently, "Richard, do keep calm. No one, and nothing, is going to come between us, I promise. Only please keep a level head. Try to think," she looked at him with desperate tenderness, "Please. Do that, only that, for me."

"How can I think?" he asked her in frustration, "All I can think of is you. All there is for me to think of is you, beautiful you. That's all I want to know. I'm so in love with you. Isobel," he whispered, taking her face in his hand again, leaning forwards, "Can't we forget about thinking, for just a little while?"

She looked into his eyes for just a few seconds, then, this time, she yielded; she kissed him, full on the lips, tasting him, breathing him in. Leaning forwards across the gap between their arm chairs, his arms wrapping protectively around her tensely elevated body as her mouth slipped open against his to allow him better access.

Breaking apart, she hankered to be closer to him again. Getting up, tentatively, she crossed the tiny gap between the chairs. Recognising her need, feeling it himself, he put his hands around her waist, drawing her to sit in his lap, taking her weight easily, her head tucked beneath his chin as her hand rested against his chest.

"You need to be honest with her," she told him, after a long spell of silence, "You need to tell her that there's someone else."

She knew without needing to look at his face that he was looking sceptical.

"And how do you think she'd take that?" he asked rather dryly.

"Richard," she chided, sitting up a little, "I don't have to tell you that you owe it to her to at least be honest."

"It's not myself I'm worried for!" he insisted, "I'm worried for your sake. I don't know for certain if she's the vengeful sort, but I could probably take an educated guess."

"You needn't tell her who the other woman is."

"To be honest, Isobel, I don't think it would take very long to work out. It seems that we are the last two people in Downton to realise that you're the only woman for me."

She smiled a little at that.

"What can she do to me?" she asked him, "She certainly can't say that I've promised to marry her!"

"No, but she could concoct some vicious story about you," he replied grimly, "Like that day," he told her, remembering, "That she found us at the hospital."

"But, that was just... I was only your patient then," she told him.

"I think we both know that's not entirely true," he stated, as calmly as he could, "And I think Agatha does too."

She felt her face warm a little. It was the first time that they'd spoken about that day, and the first time either of them had acknowledged out loud the over-whelming wealth of bodily attraction they felt for one another. Catching his hand in hers again, she smiled softly.

"I wish she hadn't walked in then," she confessed.

One of his hands traced slowly up the outside of her arm, resting gently on her shoulder, turning his face beside hers to kiss her cheek.

"If she hadn't, I'd have probably gotten a little carried away," he warned her.

"Precisely."

"Wicked woman," he whispered in her ear.

She could hear him smiling. She could say nothing herself for a while.

"Will you stay for some supper?" she asked him finally, "I don't want to leave you for a long time."

"Of course I will," he replied.

"You're right," she told him, "We won't talk about Agatha until later on. I don't want to talk about her until much much later on."

"Lets only think of ourselves," he replied, both of his arms wrapping tightly around her waist, "Lets only think of us."

"Us," she repeated.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	9. Chapter 9

**I'm sorry about the massive delay with this story, and with my writing in general; it has been a pretty hectic time. (But, yes, I'm still bashing away at the Richobel AU). This is for ellylilly-pmch who asked for another chapter, in the hope that she feels better soon. This is pretty fluffy andI hope it's ok. **

"Richard," she murmured later on, watching the dancing light of the candle before her on the dinner table, her voice quiet and a little tired.

He turned towards her, watching her distracted face in profile.

"What?" he asked her.

She started a little. Evidently she had not realised that she had spoken his name out loud. She smiled gently at him in her drowsiness and they both laughed a little.

"What?" he asked her again a moment later, smiling at her, "What were you thinking about, Isobel?"

Everything had changed since they had been honest with one another; everything was quiet and gentle and still. The light was soft and warm and homely, and it felt inexplicably as if they had always been like this; as if they had been doing this forever. Everything was calmer, and, with the realities of the world kept so firmly at bay for the evening, blissfully happy. That was not to say that the tension between them was gone; but now it was somehow fuller and warmer, much less brittle and shaky.

"You," she replied quietly, after a few moments, "I was thinking about you, and about how happy I am that you're here." She paused for another moment, "And not wanting you to leave."

He blinked at that, and looked at her more carefully, trying to determine if she meant what he thought she did, asking her without words to clarify.

Her head straightened up a little, and she looked at him more steadily, her voice firmer and clearer.

"I don't want you to go, Richard," she told him, completely seriously, an edge to her voice which left absolutely no doubt as to why she wanted him to. The corners of her mouth curled upwards a fraction a moment later as she watched his face, the implications of what she'd said sinking in.

"Is that a thing dreadful for me to want when I know there's another woman not a mile away who thinks you're going to marry her?" she asked him conversationally.

He could not help but smile at her brutally honest appraisal of the situation.

"Probably, on some level," he replied, trying to be equally honest with her, "But I suspect that you're probably let off somehow, given how dreadful the woman in question is. And, after all, I can't be the one to blame you. I'm not exactly blameless in all of this."

She nodded almost imperceptibly, watching the candle thoughtfully again while he spoke, before turning her head back to him and telling him, in a soft voice;

"I want you, Richard."

She said it without blinking, her face completely composed and her voice spelling nothing but certainty. He was taken immensely by surprise by her sudden change of topic, by what exactly it was that she had just said to him so unashamedly, by the fact that she was saying this to him across the white linen tablecloth of the dinner table.

She laughed a little, seeing the look on his face.

"Don't worry, Richard," she told him gently, smiling, "I'm not about to pounce on you here and now. I'm not expecting anything from you at all. I'm just telling you. I want you to know that I want you."

His heart had increased dramatically in speed. He looked down at the tablecloth for a moment, trying to calm himself. It was incredible the effect that her words had on him. He could not believe her, the look sparkling in her eyes, what he was hearing.

"Isobel," he murmured, looking up at her, taking her in entirely, trying to convey just how much he meant what he said, "I want you too. You have no idea how much."

"I _do_ know," she insisted, her tone firm, leaving him in no doubt of it, "I want you now. I'd want you to pick me up and have me on the table if I didn't know that Molesley could walk in at any moment."

This time she seemed to realise the magnitude of what she was saying, the lucidity with which she was expressing it and had the good grace to colour furiously as she said it. Some would call her manner almost wanton, but he did not think so, he was amazed by her. In spite of her blush, her voice did not waver at all. She looked down at the table now- everything that could possibly say having been said- apparently biting her lip.

"Isobel," he murmured, "Don't say things like that to me, or I won't be able to help myself."

"I'm not sure that I want you to be able to help yourself," she replied, "If I'm going to be honest about it. I want you to stay."

His hand tightened on the arm of his chair.

"Can you stay?" she asked him, quietly.

"Isobel," he murmured, needing to hear her say it, wanting so desperately to hear it, "Do you love me?"

"Yes, Richard."

"Will you marry me? As soon as all of this rotten business with Agatha blows over?"

She blinked.

"Yes," she replied, her voice full of certainty, "Of course I will."

"Then I'll stay," he told her, "I would like very much to stay. Nothing could make me leave you now, Isobel."

He thought he saw her shudder just a little as the words left his mouth and he smiled at her, receiving a dazzling smile back. Her hand twitched towards his on the tablecloth and he instantly moved his hand to cover it, running his thumb over her knuckles, before cupping her hand, and raising it to his lips to kiss her palm, closing his eyes as the soft feeling of her skin on his mouth.

"Isobel," he whispered into her palm, "Isobel."

Raising his eyes to her face, he met hers immediately. Her conviction had not diminished, though somehow she looked softened, as if she was holding her breath. Then she exhaled and spoke again.

"Come up to bed with me?" she asked, a slight quiver in her voice, which was just a fraction higher than before, "Please?"

He sank his lips into the skin of her wrist this time, planting an open-mouthed kiss there before he answered, his heart beating in his throat;

"Yes, Isobel. Oh, yes."

**Please review if you have the time. **


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